


Finders of the Prophet

by Moonrose91



Series: The New, Nice, and Accurate Prophecies of After [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Character Tags To Be Added - Freeform, Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Dads, Ineffable Dads (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Prophecy, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:53:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moonrose91
Summary: Back on 15 April 1313 A.D., Aziraphale accidentally missed one of the cultists (to be fair he was not present and was, in fact, a Non-Believer, but was paid well and given an education in reading and writing, so he didn't care) and they've continued.Now, in 1990, after the Apocolypse That Wasn't, Aziraphale, with help from Crowley, is going to clean up this mess.





	1. 17 October, 1990

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for OCs, and also for Ineffable Dads, and adoption. While M/M is there, it is more because they are agender celestial/demonic beings that prefer male pronouns.
> 
> Also, while this is mostly pulling from the book, it will also make references to the TV show and might have characterization more in line with that regarding how they dealt with Aziraphale and Crowley and how they are treated in Heaven and Hell respectively.

Aziraphale was never one to throw his weight around.

He also thought it was incredibly rude to correct people in front of any number of other people no matter how wrong they were.

When they said ‘Principality Aziraphale’, he didn’t clear his throat and correct the angel in question.

Not even when it was Gabriel, though it was thoroughly tempting every time.

Aziraphale also didn’t bother to correct anyone, didn’t see much point really, since it wasn’t hurting anyone and it wasn’t like he didn’t let his other three sides out on occasion, so he just shrugged and moved on.

Unbeknownst to him, and fully within God’s Ineffable Plan, it would turn out to be rather a good thing that him being a Cherub was rather forgotten.

* * *

 

Aziraphale hummed quietly as he worked on fixing a particularly rare book he had been hired to repair. He rarely did it, but on occasion he took the commission during the rare times anyone could get into his “shop” and he sighed when he heard the ring of a bell.

“Crowley, I _really_ don’t have the time right now,” Aziraphale called.

“I’m afraid I’m not Mr. Crowley, Mr. Fell,” a male voice intoned, and one Aziraphale dreaded hearing from.

William Rose, collector of books of prophecy and hounder of Aziraphale for the one book he could not have.

One part being that, before the Averted Apocalypse, Aziraphale had no idea if a copy even existed and now, after (by a grand total of almost two months) the Averted Apocalypse, Aziraphale had no desire to ask Anathema about buying her copy.

Family heirloom and all that.

He carefully put his work to the side and stepped out as he took his glasses off. “Oh, Mr. Rose,” he greeted as he stepped over and almost gagged when he caught the smell of Something Horrific.

That Something Horrific was…was the worst sort of smell imaginable. It was one that Aziraphale hadn’t smelled since the 14th Century when he thought he had ripped it out by the roots in a rather horrific fashion [1].

It was the smell that only came from Demons Blood and Angels Tears.[2]

Aziraphale blinked a few times and stepped up to his counter. “Mr. Rose, what are you looking for today?” he asked with a smile and shoved down his wish to react to That Smell.

It was thick enough that it was sliding into the back of his throat and he felt like it might choke him.

“The same as always, Mr. Fell. Have you unearthed a copy of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch,_ yet?” Mr. Rose asked.

“No, not yet. _But_ I’ve managed to discover that, despite the popular rumour that all the books were burned in a rather unsavoury attempt at fire insurance fraud[3], one may have survived such a fate!” Aziraphale answered, trying to sound like himself.

It was difficult, but he had managed.

“Very good. Remember, price is no object for me,” Mr. Rose said and left the shop.

Aziraphale hurried after him, turning the sign to closed and locking it quickly before he rushed to the wastepaper bin. The retching made _everything_ ache and he had to find something to inhale to try and rid himself of the _smell._

He never thought he would have to smell it again.

Outside of his memories, at least.

He needed Crowley.

* * *

 

Crowley swung his leg idly and looked up when he heard the sound of his answerphone going. It rang three times, and then Aziraphale’s voice came over.

_"Ah, hello my dear, it’s me, Aziraphale…"_

Crowley was already picking up. “Angel,” he greeted warmly.

“Oh, thank goodness, dear, you’re home,” Aziraphale said and Crowley’s smile dropped from his face.

His Angel sounded…distressed. Distressed in a way he hadn’t since World War II and the Concentration Camps.

“Angel, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, so much, my dear. Come to the bookshop, please. And I am sorry about the smell. My poor books,” Aziraphale said, sounding even _more distressed at_ those words.

“I’m there in three minutes,” Crowley said and hung up before Aziraphale could scream about how he should not be there in three minutes.

The Bentley hit 100 right off the street and tore through it. Crowley didn’t even blink at weaving his way through and around reality and pedestrians both, taking turns on two hubcaps practically before they screeched to a halt next to Aziraphale's returned bookshop via Adam Young.

Aziraphale swore that it had all his first editions, and included some new things that he never would have had before.

Crowley snapped his fingers to get into the shop, since the door was locked and promptly gagged when he was hit with a smell he doubted even _Hell_ could have in its deepest bowels.

“For Somebody’s sake, what _is that?”_ Crowley gasped as he shut the door behind him with his foot, snapping his fingers to lock it behind him.

“Something Horrific,” Aziraphale said. “Come on, you will want something to get that taste out of your mouth. I’m afraid to say you won’t forget it. I’ve had it banging around in my head since the 14th Century, and it’s yet to clear out.”

Crowley stumbles a little as he’s lead to the couch and he’s at least given alcohol as he tries to get the smell out of his _nose and tongue_. He feels like it’s _punched him through the eyes_ and he’s glad his human form allows him to blink because he had to clench his eyes shut tight to deal with it.

Peppermint is added to the mix, but it helps at least.

“Sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and his fingers are in Crowley’s hair, soothing and gentle and loving.

Eventually, he can open his eyes, and no longer feels like the Smell is _choking him_.

“If it helps, it is easier the second time. Though you are getting it diluted. _I_ was getting it diluted. It will probably be as bad as the first time I smelled it,” Aziraphale said, softly and gently, and it takes a minute too long for Crowley to process that.

Something to do with Aziraphale's lips being pressed to his forehead.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean _diluted?”_

Aziraphale blinked a bit and sighed as he pulled back. “Right, my dear, I think I have to explain why I don’t think the 14th century was as boring as you did as I spent a good chunk of it attempting to uproot a cult. Rather unsuccessfully apparently.”

Crowley blinked a couple of times and then took off his sunglasses to stare Aziraphale down. “Explain. Now, Angel.”

And Aziraphale did.[4]

* * *

 

The Primers of the Prophet had been at work since before the 14th century.[5] They took their work very seriously, their work being the use of holy tears and hellish blood to create a True Prophet and then use that True Prophet to overthrow Faith.

It was never said to be a good plan.

They had a bit of a set back in the 14th Century[6] and they really didn’t ever recover from it. They had abducted girl children[7] since then, but before they started the intravenous solution, they had all died rather grisly deaths, not that the Primers cared.

Even those through intravenous generally died horribly as well, in agony and sobbing.

On the 21st of October, 1983, a girl was born in a small hospital, almost seven years before the Apocalypse (minus a few months). Her mother was told the daughter had died in childbirth and she wept while, in reality, she was swept off by a Primer.

On the 21st of October, 1988, she became what they wanted, but they never learned it.

Prophet hid her visions under drawings or were the drawings themselves.

It was now almost her birthday again, 17 October, 1990 and she smiled a little as she drew a black adder with gleaming golden eyes, and did an outline of four wings with eyes.

She then flipped over the paper and began to draw a rainbow instead.

She hummed quietly as she worked and paused when she heard her door unlock.

Mr. Rose walked in shortly after, and Prophet curled up on her chair, flinching at his 'tsk'.

He was wheeling the stand that had the bags of demon blood and bags of angels tears. “It's time again. You _know this_. Why can't you behave?" he growled as he yanked her arm out from the protective curl.

His grip was tight enough to bruise and he called for help when she tried to struggle. "Stop this nonsense!" Mr. Rose barked as he inserted the needle.

"It burns!" she protested and was slapped for her troubles.

She was then hauled to the bed, despite her cries and struggles. She was strapped in place so she could not move, despite her pleas and apologies.

They left her alone to plead herself hoarse, even though she knew it wouldn't change anything.

In five minutes, she began to weep blood with her tears as she blinked through the burning through her veins.

It was after that that she wished she could clap her hands over her ears as the screams of a demon and an angel slowly being tortured to death echoed through the sterile room.

_When the Four-Faced Guardian of the Eastern Gate and the Fallen Serpent Come, so shall the Primers’ Devotions be realized, but none shall see its fruit._

It was a rather comforting future.

It was one Prophet had held onto since her fifth birthday, and she was looking forward to the day it came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 He didn’t kill them, but he UnVeiled Himself, and that drove them mad, so enough of a death sentence without killing them personally.[return to text]
> 
> 2 It is not a smell Aziraphale likes to think on or try to describe, so he doesn't. Just remember it is horrific and nightmare inducing.[return to text]
> 
> 3 They had been, by Master Scaggs in hopes of getting some of their money back, omitting exactly one copy beyond that which had lived with Agnes Nutter's decedents till the Apocalypse That Was Averted came to pass. [return to text]
> 
> 4 He forgot to bring up the Cherub thing again. To be fair, it wasn't something he thought on much, omitting when he UnVeiled himself since he isn't allowed to kill humans except out of extreme self-defense.[return to text]
> 
> 5 They had, specifically, been 'at work' since the 3rd of April 1213, one century before Aziraphale discovered them and did his best to rip them out by the roots.[return to text]
> 
> 6 If a 'complete and utter ruination of their followers and most of their work by one very pissed off Angel' could be considered a 'bit of a setback'[return to text]
> 
> 7 They chose girls due to sexism and all witches being girls. And also as they were, essentially, trying to create the next Agnes Nutter, they felt it best to be as close to that as possible. And because of sexism. Yes, I know it is there twice, mostly because the Agnes Nutter part is recent, all told.[return to text]


	2. 20 October, 1990

Aziraphale had found the place.

It was a gatehouse once upon a time, but the place it had once guarded had long fallen to ruin and the trees had returned to their rightful place. All it guarded now was a river.

“What is with their obsession with out of the way places?” Aziraphale muttered.

“Might come from your bloody crusade against them in the 14th Century,” Crowley remarked.

“It was _not_ a bloody crusade! Just a…deeply unpleasant one for them and for me,” Aziraphale argued, feeling his wings[1] fluff up, despite being folded into the space between spaces.

Crowley smiled at him, mouth wide and showing off his fangs, more like a cobra hissing than anything else.

He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders before he leaned over. “So, they summon demons and angels and then sacrifice them?” Crowley asked as they worked out how to get to the former gatehouse.

“I wish,” Aziraphale said quietly. “No. They…torture them. The demons for their blood, the angels for their tears. And it's not just…they _destroy them_ , my dear. The demons humanoid forms are ones they are half pulled out of and chained down to burn. And if smaller Fallens are caught, they add in what they do to the angels. They lock them in cages, force their wings out through the bars and..."

Aziraphale trailed off, feeling himself chill at the memories.[2] "It would be kinder, if they sacrificed them."

Crowley wrapped Aziraphale in a tight hug.

“Right, Angel, let’s work this out,” Crowley said and Aziraphale leaned back to give him a kiss on the temple before he focused back down on the map.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night that lashed at windows and thunder rumbled above. It was a night like this that the former Anti-Christ should have been delivered, but that was not the case.

Instead, it was the type of night were a gallant rescue would come forth and Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies would have spoken of it, had it not been burned. Even then there were tonnes written that were under crayon and thrown away by uncaring cultists.[3]

Up the road, going too fast for any human, and in far too perfect condition to be owned by any human, the Bentley wound toward the house, blaring _We Will Rock You_ , by Queen.

“Right, of course, this is most definitely the sneakiest way into the former gatehouse,” Aziraphale said and then paused.

“Does this place look familiar to you?” he asked.[4]

“No, can’t be,” Crowley answered as the Bentley’s lights went out.[5]

“Right, well…this could be considered attacking us first, right? I mean, summoning and abducting angels and demons,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, yeah. Makes me want your bloody flaming sword back,” Crowley responded and sighed. “How much of our human sides are letting slip then, angel?”

Aziraphale paused slightly. “Well…I’ve got my wings, but I think that would be dramatic enough. And once I’m out of the Bentley, thank you darling for getting us here safely,[6] I’ll try and see if I can Miracle my old sword to me, and then we head in there and...do something,” he said.

Crowley stared at him and then gave a nod. “Yeah, I don’t really want to be a giant serpent in this weather. Wings it is. And I’ll demonic intervention up my old sword from some of the old days.”

“You have a sword?” Aziraphale asked.

“I do. From when I was the Black Knight, remember? Let’s go, angel. Cults to massacre and destroy, places to be,” Crowley said.

“Oh, I do really wish you’d stop bringing up the massacring part of this,” Aziraphale muttered as he got out of the Bentley.

A soft bell and a crunch of glass sound and Aziraphale had his flaming sword once more, while Crowley drew his Black Knight sword from the scabbard. “Ah, good as new!” he said with a grin as he swung it easily.

Aziraphale swung the sword around, once well clear of the Bentley of course, and unfurled his wings, letting them beat twice as Crowley did the same, his sunglasses tucked away.

They had just reached the door when the screaming started.[7]

Aziraphale froze, his wings slamming down against his back as Crowley blessed and dropped his sword, covering his ears. “What in Satan’s name is that?” he demanded.

Aziraphale’s wings twitched slightly. “Torture. Demon. I know the Demon. The other is Angel,” Aziraphale whispered and then he tightened his grip on his sword.

He didn’t hesitate, just slammed the door open. He ignored the smell, somehow worse, so much worse, the sword alighting and he cut through the nearest person as his wings flared open, white, white, newly freshly fallen snow white since he stayed Veiled.

* * *

In the sterile room, Prophet curls into a tight ball, sobbing into her knees as she crushes her hands over her ears.

The screams are growing.

“When the Four-Faced Guardian of the Eastern Gate and the Fallen Serpent Come, so shall the Primers’ Devotions be realized, but none shall see its fruit,” she mumbled, repeating it as she rocked herself back and forth.

* * *

Crowley had thought he was beyond surprise.[8]

Watching Aziraphale go from adorable “bookshop” owner to deadly warrior of the Heavenly Host was…doing things to Crowley’s brain he was slightly ashamed of.

The sword gleamed, it set things and people alight. Crowley had gotten to his feet and followed.

Add it in, and on top of it all, despite how much Aziraphale must _loathe_ these people, or come as close to it as he can, he’s still so _blessed merciful_.

His cuts are clean and precise. He does not hesitate, does not falter.

He was God’s Merciful Wrath incarnated and it made Crowley a little weak-kneed when he wasn’t doing his own massacring.

He was the Serpent of Eden, but before _that_ , he had helped create the Heavenly Bodies and guided nebulas into being and been a soldier too.

And then he Sauntered Vaguely Downward and was a soldier for Hell and now he’s a warrior for Earth, so he’s alright with how his eternal existence has turned out so far.

“Mr. Fell,” a voice greeted, sounding a little put-out.

Crowley turned, in time to watch Aziraphale just...behead him, using his wing to shield his _coat_ from the blood.

“Mr. Rose,” Aziraphale said and looked around. “Oh, dear, we _have_ made a mess, haven’t we?”

Crowley couldn’t help it.

He laughed.

* * *

The screaming had stopped.

Prophet continued to mumble her first prophecy and rock.

* * *

Aziraphale’s hand snapped out and caught Crowley from walking forward, eyes focused on the sigils on the ground.

“Shit,” Crowley remarked as he stared at it.

“Interwoven demon and angel traps. Would work even on us,” Aziraphale said, considering that Crowley had once been of the Second Sphere and Aziraphale himself was of the First.

Crowley glanced at him but hissed. “Oh, ow, yeah. I think those might hold the King of Hell himself if he wandered into it,” he said with a tiny wince.

Aziraphale didn’t comment, just gave a small sigh, as that _was_ what he had just said. “We need paint thinner, water, and soap,” Aziraphale said and Crowley snapped his fingers for mops.

They began to clean then, scrubbing away through the lines of traps. The sigils gave way slowly, they washed away the salt out of the cracks in the stones, and occasionally Aziraphale miracled some of it off.

The clock had struck midnight before they were done and Crowley stopped still in front of a door.

“My dear?” Aziraphale said as he miracled his coat into place from where he had miracled it into the Bentley during clean up.

“Someone’s crying,” Crowley muttered and eyed the door.

He then took a step back, balanced and kicked it open. “Anthony J. Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he rushed over, only to pause when he saw the sterile room.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Aziraphale whispered when he saw the child, the far too pale, too small and too thin in ways no child should be,  _child_ curled up tight and only wearing a hospital gown.

Crowley blessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 They were not actually white, that was just how they were perceived when he was Veiled. They were actually a lovely grey on top with white insides that were barred brown. Oh, and with eyes upon every feather as well. And having four of them total folding out of his back. But all told, they were not white. Or two. Aziraphale rather liked them and sometimes UnVeiled them when alone. [return to text]
> 
> 2 The memory of what the Primers of the Prophet did to those with wings was one of the reasons Aziraphale didn't like to sleep. [return to text]
> 
> 3 It is one of the reasons they never realized they had succeeded and continued with pumping demons blood and angels tears into her bloodstream, which was necessary for the Ineffable Plan. [return to text]
> 
> 4 It was, in fact, the gatehouse that they had spent the night in, during a rather ferocious rain and thunderstorm back in the 14th Century, before Aziraphale decided to uproot a cult, where they had shared their first kiss. Well, their first kiss that didn't involve alcohol first and lead to Aziraphale panicking and then being lost and stumbling upon said cult in the first place. Ineffable Plan indeed. [return to text]
> 
> 5 It was. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Aziraphale had been sneakily calling the Bentley 'darling' since around 1952, after he saw the wheel jerk in to the right when Crowley hadn't been holding the wheel. Since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, he wasn't so sneaky anymore. The Bentley rather liked being called Darling and once Queen existed, had been trying to get them openly together, not fully realizing that before the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't had happened, and Heaven and Hell decided to leave them alone, it was not possible for them to be Out and About as it were. [return to text]
> 
> 7 The sound of a demon and an angel being tortured to death are not something that should be described, but the eeriness of it is somewhere in the vicinity of hearing a rabbit scream. The Feelings (of the bad kind) they envoke are nameless. [return to text]
> 
> 8 Regarding Aziraphale, not humans. [return to text]


	3. 21 October, 1990

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting shortly after midnight

Aziraphale removed his coat again, not a stain on it as Crowley carefully moved toward the girl.[1] “Hey,” he said softly and patted around for his sunglasses, only to still when he saw her looking up.

He tilted his head as she watched him. “Hey,” he said again. “What’s your name?”

“I…I don’t have one. They call me Prophet as they wait for me to die,” she answered softly.

“Oh, little one,” Aziraphale said. “This is no place for you. Or any child.”

“There’ve been many,” the girl said quietly and made a small sound as Aziraphale draped his coat over her.

“That’s an honour. He _never_ lets _anyone_ touch that coat, not even me,” Crowley said softly as he did a small, needless, motion with his hand.

She nodded a little nervously and Crowley helped Aziraphale wrap her up in his coat. “I think we got everyone, dear,” Aziraphale said and unfolded his wings. “But why don’t you go ahead to the Bentley, while I make sure?”

Crowley nodded and tucked the girl closer as he picked her up, wrapped up in Aziraphale’s coat. She let her head rest on Crowley’s shoulder and he tightened his grip. “I’ll see you in the Bentley, angel,” he said and headed for the front door.

Aziraphale waited for them to be safely outside before he shut the door.

He miracled the sword back to where it had been and gave himself a shake. He snapped his fingers, miracling his clothes into a neat pile, and then let himself UnVeil. His wings spread out, unfolding, as his curls fell into a mane around his still human face, the lion’s body returning and oxen hooves, the four wings unfolding and the Eyes Opened upon them.

He moved through the house and then huffed as he finished the circuit and then folded back into his Fourth Face. He shook himself, snapped his clothes back into place, omitting his coat of course, and looked around.

He debated, then set the place on fire with a miracle...with a few more over it so that it wouldn’t burn the trees down around the old gatehouse.

“Pity. I do rather think this is the place,” he mused and slipped out, lifting up one of his wings to act as an umbrella against the rain.

He headed for the Bentley, which was playing Queen and the lights were on. Crowley looked like he had demonic miracled up something for the girl because there was a blanket now too.

She looked a little overwhelmed and Aziraphale carefully settled in the Bentley, at Crowley’s feet practically. “Dear,” Aziraphale said as she blinked at them, so small and fragile.

“You need to drive,” Aziraphale said and Crowley hesitated, one hand being so gentle in running over her hair, trying to comfort.

He had always had a soft spot for children. He had been as horror-struck as Aziraphale about the drowning of the children, but Aziraphale had not been able to do anything about it or even voice his upset.[2]

Crowley at least had his freedom in _that._

“Will you be alright if Aziraphale stays with you?” Crowley asked and the little girl nodded.

He and Crowley changed spots and Aziraphale snapped his fingers to dry himself off before he hesitated, suddenly realizing he…was not good with children.

He was never--

He froze when the girl shifted to press against his side. “Thank you,” she mumbled and Aziraphale carefully wrapped his arm around her, snapping his fingers so they were both buckled in.

“You’re welcome, little one. Dear, drive carefully, and darling, remember we have a child in the car,” Aziraphale responded and the little girl buried her face against his side, clutching onto his vest.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as the Bentley took back off for London, though Soho or Mayfair remained a mystery.

* * *

The Bentley took them to Soho and Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“Probably a good thing. She might panic over how you treat your plants,” Aziraphale had grumbled as Crowley demonic intervention-ed[3] up an umbrella to hold over them as Aziraphale carried the sleeping girl inside.

Crowley had been feeling a weird...itching feeling since he had started driving and if how Aziraphale was fussing a little from foot to foot, he was feeling the same feeling.

Actually, if he could pinpoint it, Crowley would _bless_ that it had started right after they had both just started taking care of this skin and bones kid that some insane cult from the 14th Century[4] had for some reason.

They worked together to settle her on the sofa in front of the fireplace in Aziraphale’s weird space above the bookshop that looked like another part of the bookshop but wasn’t. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and there was no immediate change beyond the girl shifting a bit. “Right, well, we have to keep her,” Aziraphale said.

“I’m sorry, wait, _what?”_ Crowley demanded, thrown for a loop.

Just because he was building up arguments for it didn’t mean that he was expecting Aziraphale to just _say it_.

“Crowley, we _have_ to. She’s no longer fully…human, you have to be able to tell. On top of that, she would be so horrifically scarred for life she likely would be unable to trust anyone for some time. I do hope you’ve made yourself _exist_ according to modern day,” Aziraphale responded as he shifted to tuck her in, but wasn’t removing the coat.

Crowley shrugged off his own jacket to tuck over her, which seemed to make her relax.

He then let some of the _human_ go and flicked out a forked tongue.

He got a mouthful of…

“You’ve got to be fucking _blessing_ me,” he groaned when he got the balance of angelic _and_ demonic off of her.

Divinity and Demonic.

A balance beyond what Adam had[5], she didn’t even have a whiff of Human in her anymore, except…maybe buried.

“Fucking _Heaven_ , what did they _do_ to her?” Crowley demanded in a low hiss.

“I don’t know, my dear. But we’ll just have to figure it out and help her, won’t we?”

“And give her a name. She can’t be nameless.”

“Right, well…after she sleeps some, my dear. Tea?”

Crowley stared after his ridiculously British angel as he went to make tea before hearing an answer and glanced around before he snapped his fingers.

He grinned at the stuffed snake that was tucked in her arms, nose under her chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The assumption came from the fact she had long brown hair in two braided pigtails with ribbons. And considering how everyone they had slaughtered was male and painfully filled with Toxic Masculinity, he figured she would be just as forced into a gender role. On top of only wearing a hospital gown. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Aziraphale had voiced it once and _only_ once, and been mocked for it by the other angels near him for it, and a sharp, "Are you questioning the Great Plan Aziraphale?" So he hadn't voiced his upset again. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Demons, or Fallen Angels, didn't _miracle_ things up. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Further proof that that was the century that should just be forgotten for all of eternity. [return to text]
> 
> 5 After he was able to Escape the Grasp of Destiny and Fate, Adam's soul smelled to demons (both kinds) and angels as simply human. Except for two, one of each side. To Crowley and Aziraphale, he had a hint of sulphur, Tadfield, and apple pie. And Human, of course. Neither could explain the apple pie. [return to text]


	4. Names Are Very Important Things

Prophet sat at the table, in a nightgown, as Aziraphale called it, while Crowley did some weird measuring.

“So, we were wondering little one,” Aziraphale said.

“Little star,” Crowley argued idly, not really arguing, correcting almost, and Aziraphale smiled up at Crowley.

“Little star,” he corrected and it makes Prophet feel…safe.

She’s never felt safe. She looked it up in a dictionary once to make sure and the description matches close enough to her feelings right now. There are other things too, like fear but a different fear and not the one she’s used to.

She’s not going to look at it right now.

“We were wondering if you wanted to stay with us,” Aziraphale explained and Prophet thought of her visions.

Prophecies and pictures. Four wings and a snake, a white coat that no one was allowed to touch, not even Aziraphale’s Greatest Love, wrapped around her, and waking up with Crowley’s jacket and hugging a stuffed snake.

She nodded before she had finished listing everything. “My…my name’s not going to be _Prophet_ is it?” she asked as Crowley finished measuring her, for whatever reason.

“Of course not little star!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“Over my melted corpse!” Crowley shot back and Aziraphale hissed at him to ‘not say things like that in front of our daughter!’

Prophet smiled a little. “Alright. What…what will it be?” she asked carefully and Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a wide-eyed look.

It was easy to see since Crowley wasn’t hiding his eyes.

She thought they were very nice.

“Well, I have myself Miracled _properly_ into Humanity, so you’ll have my last name. I suppose we could go with…niece? Yes, niece, whose father, my brother, died recently,” Aziraphale offered.

“Why’d you give yourself a brother?” Crowley asked.

“Gabriel was coming down and sending so many letters, it was just easier,” Aziraphale answered. “And, well…I always liked Cicely.”

“You want to name her after a saint?” Crowley asked and Aziraphale actually jumped.

In the in-between places, where their wings rested, the white wings[1] fluffed out and twitched as well. “Oh, I forgot that. I meant spelled C-I-C-E-L-Y.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You and Oscar Wilde,” he muttered and Prophet noticed how Aziraphale’s wings fluffed and fluttered again.

“Right, well, yes. Just a middle name anyway. Humans usually have those Anthony _J._ Crowley.”

Prophet giggled a little and Anthony raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, she needs a first name now,” he said and Aziraphale hummed.

Crowley eyed Prophet. “What about something from France? From that time I saved you in the French Revolution because you wanted _crepes?”_

“Something with an ‘A’,” Aziraphale said and then looked toward Crowley. “How would you feel about her sharing your name, dear?”

“Marie-Antoinette was _beheaded,_ angel,” Crowley retorted.

“She was not as wicked as they made her out to be,” Aziraphale said. “We can think of something else.”

“No. No, I like it,” Crowley said.

“Antoinette Cicely Fell. How do you like that little star?” Aziraphale responded.

“I like it,” she said quietly and Crowley nodded.

“Good, great,” he said and shoved his sunglasses onto his nose, covering his eyes. “Going to get her things to wear now, angel. And don’t worry. No one is going to give me A Look. Dad died, lost everything, that’s what I’m going for.”

“Crowley, what do you mean no one is going to give you A Look?” Aziraphale asked, but Crowley was already gone while Aziraphale sighed.

“Oh, he’s going to get into trouble, isn’t he?” he asked.

Antoinette Cicely Fell just gave a small shrug and dug into the breakfast Aziraphale put in front of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The Girl Soon To Be Formerly Known as Prophet thought the white wings looked wrong, but she didn't say anything. [return to text]


	5. 28 October, 1990; A Happy Belated Birthday

Antoinette sat in her new clothes, colouring at a table behind the shop’s counter, ignoring the few customers that had managed to get in.

She wondered if Crowley talked to his plants like Aziraphale talked to customers.[1]

His wings fluffed and fluttered and she was sure if he was a swan he would be puffed up and beating his wings to scare people away from his cygnets. “Uncle Ezra?” she called, looking up from her drawing of a cottage of pale brown-grey stone and a darker brown-grey roof, a detached garage, and rose vines growing around and on the cottage, almost untamed.

Aziraphale immediately turned his focus toward her. His wings settled, his expression softened. “Yes, little star?” he asked.

“I’m hungry,” she said and he beamed.

“Of course little star! I’ll take you out for lunch immediately! Now, now, I’m afraid you must all leave!” Aziraphale said and quickly everyone was gone from the shop.

Antoinette smiled up at him and he chuckled. “Were you serious or were you just helping me get rid of customers?” he asked, walking over to fiddle with her hair.

He was hesitant and he fumbled with a coin twice before he pretended to pull out from behind her ear. She smiled over it anyway.

“Serious,” she answered quietly and he gave a nod.

“Alright then. How about we go out?” he asked. “I’ll call Crowley before we leave, just so he knows.”

Antoinette smiled and Aziraphale dialled Crowley’s cell number.

“Oh, hello dear, I’m glad I caught you,” Aziraphale said. “Antoinette and I are heading out to lunch, that little place on the opposite corner from my shop…No, no, it lets children in before six o’clock in the evening. It’s _after_ that they bar children…No, I will not enter through the _bar_ entrance! I don’t want them to lose their license! The sweetest couple run that pub!”

Antoinette giggled a little.

“I was thinking of fish and chips. New for her, and they’re not as greasy as most places,” he continued and smiled warmly at her. “Maybe take her to St. James’ Park after unless you think that’s not a good idea…Alright, we’ll meet you by our usual bench. I’ll make sure I have peas. I was looking in a book and bread is bad for ducks, apparently. All those centuries.”

Aziraphale looked, briefly, distressed, his wings curling in on him, and then he blushed, his wings fluffing out, all dishevelled really. “Anthony J. Crowley, our daughter is _right here!”_ Aziraphale exclaimed and Antoinette smiled at that, before looking back at her picture with the house and started drawing a little black and white Dog trotting up to the door.

* * *

Crowley smirked[2] as he walked through St. James Park and toward his usual bench with the angel to find Aziraphale feeding the ducks, and the occasional swan, with Antoinette sitting next to him.

He paused a bit when he saw that she was feeding the ducks as well, but she also had pigeons around her. The feral ones, technically, the ones bred by humans and then thrown out. There’s a couple of white ones, technically called doves but not, and he shakes himself off before he sits next to them.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale greeted warmly and brightly and Antoinette smiled up at him.

“I had fish and chips,” she announced quietly and Crowley smiled at her.

“I was told. At a pub,” he said with a chuckle and waved at a couple of pigeons away so he could fix her hair.

Closer to her and the Not Human scent is obvious. She once was, it’s under it, and Crowley hopes no other angel or demon will notice that she’s Not Human and do something to her.

They’re not going to be able to leave her alone. “It was very nice. I liked it,” Antoinette said and Crowley hummed, demonic miracling up some food for the ducks and throwing it out.

He couldn’t resist dunking one of the ducks.

“My dear,” Aziraphale scolded immediately and the duck came up, quacking while Crowley pretended to look sheepish.

Antoinette giggled and swung her feet as she continued to feed the ducks.

“We’ll finish getting your bedroom things today,” Crowley announced and Aziraphale looked over.

“I thought it was done?” he asked and Crowley gave him a look over his sunglasses.

“Aziraphale, it’s literally things you’ve pulled out of some weird storage space for all your antique furniture you refuse to lose unless fire or flood takes it from you.”

“Or plague, dear, don’t forget plague.”

Antoinette is looking between them, smiling and shy.

“She gets to choose her own furniture and bedspreads now. A birthday present, for whenever that is,” Crowley answered, waving his hand.

“October the twenty-first,” Antoinette answered and Aziraphale jumps.

His wings flutter.

Aziraphale’s wings have always, and will always, be part of his body language, even folded in the space in-between.

So it was frighteningly unnatural whenever he came back from reporting to Heaven and his wings looked as if they were carved from marble instead.

Thankfully, that hadn’t happened for the past two months.

“That was a week ago, little star!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Kinda gave her the best unintentional birthday present ever, breaking her out of that forsaken place, didn’t we?” Crowley answered, but he had to agree with the question.

“I have no idea what presents are, but they sound nice,” Antoinette said, sounding curious. “I never heard the word before either, or I would have looked it up.”

“Presents,” she said quietly and it sounded like she was rolling the world over and around in her mouth as she repeated it.[3]

“A whole new bedroom set it is! Let’s go dear, little star! We’ll have to put something together for a birthday cake as well! Oh there is that _one_ bakery,” Aziraphale announced as he stood up.

Crowley chuckled as Antoinette looked up in some confusion and then made a surprised sound as Crowley picked her up and tucked her on his hip. She clung to his shoulder, eyes wide, as the three began to head toward the Bentley.

Aziraphale burned the ticket on the windshield up and Crowley settled Antoinette in the backseat before they headed for _Harrods_.

Or tried to.

Crowley was overruled by both Aziraphale _and_ the Bentley in five minutes and turned toward a different furniture store.

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and let them overrule them.

He’d just take Antoinette to _Harrods_ on his own then.

* * *

Antoinette isn’t sure about ‘birthdays’, ‘parties’, ‘cakes’, or ‘presents’, or how to feel about them.

But she rather likes the fact that despite everything and how suddenly they were there, that they still make her feel safe.

And let her get that really cool bed that had twelve drawers, six on each side, so she didn’t _need_ a wardrobe and a headboard that was a bookcase.

“She’s _you_ ,” Crowley had intoned toward Aziraphale, who had merely beamed.

She wasn’t sure about all those words, and she had a modern dictionary to look them up in, or the feelings outside of _safety_ and a lack of fear, but…she thinks she’s safe to feel them now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Uncle Anthony and Uncle Ezra respectively, though she felt these titles were wrong. She didn't know why. [return to text]
> 
> 2 It was a warm, fond, completely sappy smile nowhere near a smirk. [return to text]
> 
> 3 The fact Antoinette was repeating the word as if it was a new thing and the fact she mentioned looking it up in the dictonary made Crowley want to go murder the cultists again while his heart did funny things. Aziraphale recognized his own feelings as a small type of heartbreak. [return to text]


	6. 2 November, 1990

Crowley kept Antoinette’s hand in his as they entered _Harrods_.

One reason was, again, because of the Not Human thing.[1] He wasn’t even sure what it was, but being the Serpent of Eden meant he caught _that_ more easily than most. The small shift, the Human was there but buried heavily.

Thankfully, being out of the place seemed to be helping. If she could just be coated enough in Humans, it might work as effective camouflage if she ever ran into any demons on the streets, like Hastur.

Who, if he saw Crowley, would probably try to kill him for Ligur’s death by Holy Water, and if he knew of Antoinette, would definitely use her to get to Crowley.

Or kill her mercilessly and painfully and leave her mutilated corpse somewhere for him to find.

“Uncle Anthony?” Antoinette called and he looked down at her, not bothering to blink as he didn’t need to right now.

“Yeah?” he asked as they took the lift to the furniture floor.

“Are you okay?”

“Course I am, little star. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re making that noise. Not one I can hear, but one I can _hear_.”[2]

Crowley frowned, then remembered that she was Not Human now, and gave a nod. “Just something. Don’t worry, shouldn’t affect you. Come on, let’s go get you set-up for my place,” he said.

“Why?” Antoinette asked as she walked with him to the furniture.

“Because my flat has a different set-up. You’ll see,” Crowley explained. “But also so you can choose what you want, in a way.”

“I _like_ the drawer bed with the bookcase over my head,” she responded as she followed after him.

“And you can get another one,” Crowley said. “But my flat has more space, so you can get a desk and a wardrobe and things.”

“I like not having a wardrobe,” Antoinette said and Crowley resisted the urge to make a noise at that.

“You don’t move your wings as much,” she added once they were looking over beds that fit ‘drawers and bookcase headboards’.

“That’s so weird you can see in the in-between. No, not really. Remind me to pin Aziraphale down and groom his wings later.”

“Okay,” Antoinette answered and at least chose a black version of her pale white wood at Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“Wonderful. Now we’ll get the whole set,” he said with a grin and Antoinette nodded in agreement.

He kept his hand in hers, even as he signed out and over for it to be delivered to his flat. It was _Harrods_ , after all, and then he went to try to convince the girl she wanted more things.

He at least got her another stuffed animal, but she had muttered about preferring the snake.

“I’ll get you a million of the stuffed things,” Crowley reassured and picked her up to go pay for all that he needed to, and then take her to the flat.

Aziraphale was doing cataloguing and Crowley was really just protecting her in this instance.

He was _never_ repeating that time, right before the Holy Water incident.

Never. Again.

Antoinette let her head rest on his shoulder and little old ladies cooed over it, and once it was all done, he settled her in the Bentley before driving them to his flat.

“Does Aziraphale know we’re going to your flat?” Antoinette asked from the backseat because she was too small to sit in the front seat.

And the Bentley refused to let the front bench up for her, so she had to sit in the back.

“More or less. He made a vague agreeing sound. He’ll yell later. He thinks you’ll be scared of how I treat my plants,” Crowley responded.

Antoinette gave a shrug and they swerved through the streets and up to Mayfair. Crowley parked in his usual spot, legally if only because it was a pain otherwise, and swept her out of the Bentley and toward the stairs to his flat.

* * *

Crowley’s plants are, as one already knows, the most verdant and terrified plants in all of London.

They had also been absorbing demonic energy since they were brought into the flat, surrounded with the supernatural, and other such things.

So when Crowley brought Antoinette into the flat, they all knew that this was Something New. They had been touched by the Damned and the Divine[3], and she was Neither and Both and Not Human, and they were so very curious.

“What are they?” Antoinette asked as she leaned in close to one of the ferns.

“Plants that, if they know what is good for them, will keep growing like they _are_ ,” Crowley threatened and the plants trembled.

“I think--”

“Don’t say _lovely_. You’ll undo a good decade of hard work if you do!”

Antoinette giggled at that and took Crowley’s hand, and the plants were _very_ confused when Crowley snapped his fingers, but no one disappeared.

“Why did you summon a black sheet?”

“You don’t need to know.[4] Come on, little star, let me show you around,” Crowley said and promptly went to do so.

The plants were not entirely sure what to expect about this Someone New, but their Ruthless Demon Overlord liked her, so they would be sure to be on Their Very Best Growth.

* * *

Antoinette always had a hard time falling asleep.

She was still terrified of sleeping, because usually when she woke up, it wasn’t to anything good, and Crowley was so _nice_ , holding her as he walked around his flat to try and help her to sleep.

Aziraphale tried to read her books, but her sleep was still jerky and shaking. “We’re going to try something, alright little star?” he asked as it ticked closer to the twenty-second hour.

She nodded a little and was surprised when she was brought back to her room. The bed was larger than the one in Aziraphale’s and he tucked her in before he crawled on top, dragging the quilt half over him.

Then his wings came out into the physical plane and one draped over her. Then a low _humming_ came, the one she could _hear_ , but not hear, and her eyes began to droop. The snake was tucked into her arms and she was out the moment she cuddled against his side.

Crowley drifted, keeping up the humming that hadn’t been _heard_ since the Beginning of Everything.[5]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The second reason was he didn't want to lose her in the store. [return to text]
> 
> 2 To hear is equivalent to seeing Crowley's wings when he lets them fold out into the material plane of existence. To _hear_ is equivalent to _seeing_ the way Crowley's wings fold half around him always in the in-between. Except when he is around Aziraphale and then they try to curl over Aziraphale as well, which doesn't work very well as Aziraphale's wings _never. Keep. Still._ [return to text]
> 
> 3 Whenever Aziraphale could visit, he always spent time cooing over the plants. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Crowley had suddenly remembered the "wrestling" angels statue and realized he should cover it. So he did. [return to text]
> 
> 5 It was the lullaby that God Herself had created for Her Angels, when they were Young, even if they essentially arrived how they were, fully formed. [return to text]


	7. 5-10 November, 1990

Guy Fawkes’ night had been horrific, for Antoinette.

She had panicked over the fireworks and hidden in her wardrobe, terrified out of her mind.

And _humming_ [1] with that fear, which had Crowley joining her in the stupid wardrobe, wrapping her up in his wings, and trying to calm her down.

All of his own _humming_ didn’t do much, comforting and soft, and he leaned down to nuzzle against her head. He curled tighter around her and tried to calm her, which took until the night of the sixth where she relaxed enough that she then promptly passed out.

* * *

_“Crowley, my dear--”_ Aziraphale’s voice came over the answerphone and Crowley immediately picked up as Antoinette looked up from her drawings.

Queen played in the background of his flat. “Hello angel,” he greeted warmly.

“Why do I have a letter from you saying that ‘while you are busy cataloguing and organizing your books, I have rescued our daughter from my fate in August of 1801 and when you return to the world of humanity, please call me’?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley chuckled and swung his legs up and over the arm of his throne. “It’s your Dad.[2] He’s asking why I left a letter explaining where we’d gone,” he explained and Antoinette giggled.

“I know, I heard him,” she said and he chuckled before he focused on the phone.

“Because, angel, that’s just what it was,” Crowley said. “I’ve been trapped in your cataloguing. It still gives me nightmares. More nightmares than the Spanish Inquisition.[3] Our precious daughter does not deserve that. So I absconded away with her into my flat. And she’s perfectly fine. She’s humming along to Queen and drawing. Here she is.”

He passed the phone over to her and he felt something weird in his chest[4] as she fumbled slightly, confused before she pressed it to her ear, mimicking him. “Hello?” she greeted and then smiled.

“Hi Aziraphale,” Antoinette greeted.

“Crowley’s taken me to St. James Park…And out to meals. He sometimes eats, but not really. Most have refreshments and, one time, whisky…Uh-huh…Here’s Crowley back,” she said and handed the phone back to Crowley carefully, then back to her drawings.

“Anthony J Crowley, you _still_ yelled at your plants while she was _with you?”_ Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley laughed and shook his head. “Be back to the bookshop this afternoon, angel,” he said and hung up.

“Going now?” she asked.

“Just to avoid Aziraphale a _little_ ,” Crowley agreed and promptly moved over to help her put her drawings together, pausing over one that had a picture of him in his snake form.

“I hadn’t thought I had shown you that,” he said.

“You haven’t,” she said simply. “But you’re the Serpent of Eden, right? So, snake.”

“And I wear a lot of black and red.”

“What’s that got to do with what colours you are?” she asked seriously and he chuckled, giving her a quick kiss on the head before he finished helping her pack up.

* * *

“So, for Guy Fawkes’ Night, we need to be…elsewhere, and I know how to help her get to sleep at night,” Crowley greeted Aziraphale as they entered the bookshop.

It had new shelves, and the books had most definitely been rearranged in whatever order Aziraphale saw fit.

Same as before, but it seemed even more haphazard and mad this time around. “People memorized your setup, didn’t they?” he asked.

“I don’t know _how_ ,” Aziraphale grumbled as Antionette skipped over to her table, which had been left untouched except that it had new crayons and coloured pencils on it.

She set her packet of drawings into place on the table.

“But what did you say about helping Antoinette sleep?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley smiled.

“Hum to her. Not here, _there_ ,” Crowley said and demonstrated with a soft _humming_ , not the usual one, but a new one.

That may or may not be Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen and Antoinette giggled.

She had been doing that a fair bit.

Crowley was going to put the responsibility for her recovery on that front on Aziraphale’s wings, and mainly with his angelic nature.[5]

“Oh! I should have thought of that!” Aziraphale said and his wings fluttered and fluffed to Crowley’s gaze.

He let his own gaze slide to Antoinette, but he couldn’t see any wings.

A pity, but she likely didn’t have enough from those captured for her to get them.[6]

He glanced toward the clock and grinned. “And, you know, you can’t open the shop yet,” Crowley said.

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked in an excited tone.

“No. It’s lunchtime, angel,” Crowley said and Antoinette set her pencils down[7] before she hopped off her chair.

“Oh, yes, we need to have lunch before you open your shop back up,” Antoinette agreed solemnly.

Aziraphale smiled and promptly took Antoinette’s hand and Crowley took the other. “You two are quite right my dear, my star. Let’s head out, shall we?”

Antoinette smiled and held onto their hands as they left the shop, locking it behind them with a dual blend of ‘miracles’.

* * *

Later that night, in the dark alleys of London, tucked out of sight and mind, and not ever thought about, the Earth lifted up and fell away.

There was a sickly taint to it now as a dead pale white hand reached up and then continued to pull himself up.

Hastur, Duke of Hell, had come to Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 It was in the same in-between place that could only be _heard_ , which was throwing Crowley a little, so he was doing his best to roll with it. [return to text]
> 
> 2 He has no idea he told Antoinette that Aziraphale was her dad. Nor had Aziraphale picked up on it. Antoinette thought the whole thing was very amusing and had looked 'Dad' up in the dictionary later and decided that was quite alright with her. She then looked up synonyms for 'Dad' in the thesaurus, and tried to choose one that fit Crowley next. [return to text]
> 
> 3 That was a lie. _Nothing_ gave him more nightmares than the Spanish Inquisition and he's still not sure how he got a commendation for that. [return to text]
> 
> 4 It was his heart breaking a little over the fact she had obviously never used a telephone before and likely had just thought it was a weird piece of art when seeing it in his flat. Aziraphale's spent most of its time buried under books. Or behind them. [return to text]
> 
> 5 This was not strictly true. The fact of the matter was, if Aziraphale was completely alone and Crowley was not part of raising Antoinette, she would not be smiling or giggling right now. She would still be nervous and scared, Aziraphale's angelic presence upsetting to her Demonic blood and Crowley alone would be the same, only due to her Divine tears, which had become blood. Together, however, their ethereal and occult natures soothed her created nature, which was helpful. Unfortunately, it was also only the beginning. [return to text]
> 
> 6 This was also, strictly speaking, not true. [return to text]
> 
> 7 Exactly where Aziraphale had set them up. Giggling and smiles was only the start of healing, and some of it was forced healing at that. [return to text]


	8. Hastur, Duke of Hell

Hell had told everyone that Crowley was off-limits.

Lord Beelzebub herself had said the order came from their King, so no one was going to be touching Crowley, or doing anything to him.

Hastur wanted vengeance[1], but he also had to follow the Word of their King.

So, he had to go at this like he would go after a soul, which was not direct, face to face, but with craftsmanship.

With _art_ , something _Crawly_ had never appreciated or understood.[2]

He moved away, shoes sharp, until he was in a park that Crowley liked so well.

He then folded down, down, and there a toad sat on the water’s edge, croaking when it shouldn’t be there at all.[3]

* * *

Crowley walked in the park with Aziraphale, Antoinette ahead of them, frowning a little.

There was something itching in the back of his head.

And not just about Antoinette, but something else as well, something he couldn’t place.

He watched Antoinette and the way she stilled before she came back to them. “I want to go home, to the bookshop,” she said, trembling and Crowley promptly picked her up because Aziraphale doesn’t look like he’d be able to do it easily.

She was shaking and Crowley realized that all the giggles and smiles and everything else were…well, not fake, but a mask of a sort. “We need to get to the bookshop, angel,” Crowley said and Aziraphale nodded quickly before they hurried to the Bentley.

Crowley forgot about the itching.

* * *

Hastur, Duke of Hell, watched them from the water.

Crowley had an angel.

Crowley had a _child_.

A child...a child Hastur could handle. The King of Hell hadn’t banned _that_ quite yet, even if he _had_ banned possession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Though he did not understand, fully, why beyond the injustice of the fact Crowley had killed one of his fellow demons without any reason. He was confused, just a little, about why _this_ had mattered so much, but he didn't have an imagination, and could not 'soul-search', as it were. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Crowley did understand, and even appreciate, the craftsmanship that went into chipping away at one solitary soul. He just also was a demon with imagination and an understanding of the reality that was Earth in the 20th Century; too bloody big to go about doing that. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Hastur only moved when a swan got involved, because he wasn't an idiot, regarding swans at least, and he didn't want to end up back in hell after being ripped apart by one. [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> GNU Terry Pratchett


End file.
